by Ralph Cotton
Down the street the clapboard-sided newspaper building stood totally consumed by smoke and tall, licking flames. There was no saving it, Summers thought, waiting, his finger on the trigger, his eyes on the roofline. In an alley across the street, Stiles stood watching him, his rifle also up, but appearing unsure of what he was going to aim at from his position.
After a moment, Summers lowered his rifle, realizing the ambusher must’ve moved after making the third shot, not wanting to reveal himself. At the far end of the street, the fire made quick work of the wooden structure while people remained behind cover and the newspaper owner lay dead in the street.
“Summers, I’m coming over there,” Stiles called out, trying to keep his voice to a hushed tone.
Summers only nodded and scanned the roofline as Stiles ran in a crouch across the street and hurried into the alley beside him.
“What is all this?” he asked Summers, catching his breath, leaning back against a wall beside him.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s the Indians you saw the other day,” Summers said wryly.
Stiles ignored the remark and said, “It looks like whoever it is didn’t want the newspaper saved?”
“Then it looks like he got what he wanted,” Summers said, cutting a glance toward the raging inferno. As he watched, a couple of bolder townsmen ventured out and hurried to the water trough with empty buckets in hand.
Summers and Stiles watched the roofline as more men appeared and formed a bucket brigade between the trough and the fire.
Stiles shook his head, his rifle lowering away from the roofline a little.
“Who would do something like this?” he said.
“Maybe it was your pal Jack Warren,” Summers said dryly. “Maybe the newsman said something that upset him.”
“Holt has never said a bad word about Jack Warren,” said Stiles.
“First time for everything,” said Summers. “Maybe Jack Warren was afraid he was getting ready to.”
Stiles looked at him.
“You’re suspicious of everybody, aren’t you, Summers?” he said.
“I wasn’t until I got here,” Summers said, lowering his rifle, deciding that whoever had been up there shooting was long gone by now.
Before Stiles could comment, Dr. Meadows came running from his office, his black bag in one hand, his other hand holding his derby hat atop his head. From the alleyway, Summers waved the doctor toward him and Stiles in the alley.
“Get in here, Doctor,” Summers called out. Meadows saw him and veered over to the alley. He came to a halt and stood next to Stiles against the wall.
“Whew!” he said. “I haven’t run that fast since Gettysburg.” He looked around Summers toward Holt lying in the street. “I shouldn’t have stopped here. I need to see if he’s still alive.”
“Get on the boardwalk and follow it to him, Doctor,” said Summers. “Get to him and drag him out of the street. We’ll cover the roof for you.” He felt sure the ambusher was gone, but he wouldn’t bet the doctor’s life on it.
“Thank you both,” said Meadows, looking from one to the other. “Here I go.”
“Wait, Doctor,” said Stiles. “How is Sheriff Goss doing?”
“Much better,” Meadows said, passing Summers a guarded glance.
“Who’s with him?” he asked. “Because I can go stay with him until you get back, if he’s there alone.”
The doctor looked at Summers again.
“Go on, Doctor,” said Summers, “while I cover you.”
The doctor took off at a run and slid to a halt beside the newsman. He grabbed him by his coat collar and dragged him off the street. Two townsmen dropped their buckets and ran over and helped him heft Holt onto the boardwalk under an overhang. Summers and Stiles watched the doctor check the man’s heart and shake his head; the newsman was dead.
“What was that look between you and the doctor?” Stiles asked.
“Nothing,” Summers said, lowering his rifle but still watching the roof above the mercantile store.
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’” said Stiles. “I saw it. You’re up to something with the sheriff. I want to know what’s going on,” he demanded.
Summers turned facing him in the narrow alleyway, his Winchester barrel positioned to swing up at his face if need be.
“I sent Sheriff Goss out of town, Stiles,” he said, only telling him half the truth. “By now he’s a long ways from here.”
“Why’d you do that?” Stiles asked with a stunned look.
“To keep you from killing him,” Summers said, “the way you killed Harper. You choked Harper to death with the length of cut rein. I suspect that you tried to kill Sheriff Goss the next day, and failed. I sent him away somewhere safe, in case you tried it again.”
“You’re loco! Plumb out of your mind, Summers!” Stiles said. He wanted to swing his rifle around at him, but he saw that Summers had already taken the upper hand on the situation. With a quick flick of his hand, Summers could put the tip of the barrel right into his face. He wasn’t going to do anything to initiate it.
“I think you tried to load him up with straight laudanum while he was weak, so he’d go to sleep and never wake up,” Summers said.
“Oh? How exactly did I do something like that?” Stiles said, managing a tight, nervous smile.
“I don’t know,” Summers said. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but I could tell by the way you acted that day. The way you looked when Doc Meadows told us the cat had knocked over the empty laudanum bottle that he’d filled with water.”
“Cats, laudanum bottles?” Stiles said. “The judge would laugh you out of court. You’ve got no proof of anything, just a head full of suspicions.”
“You’re right, Stiles, suspicions are all I have right now,” Summers said. “But I’ve seen how you are. The more I look at it, the clearer the picture gets. It’ll come to me soon enough.”
“It better come quick, Summers,” Stiles said. “Big Jack and his men are riding into town today. I’ve got news for you. He’s going to kill you as soon as he gets here.” He gave a dark grin. “I’m going to watch.”
“No, you’re not,” Summers said confidently.
Stiles gave him a curious look.
“I’ve got news for you,” Summers said. “Jack Warren and his men are already here, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Summers’ rifle barrel swung up, struck Stiles’ chin and set his head up perfectly. He jerked the rifle butt up and back and jammed it hard into the middle of Stiles’ unsuspecting face.
Stiles slammed back against the wall and slid down.
Summers caught him before he fell over onto his side. He propped him back against the wall. Stiles sat there as limp as a scarecrow. His head lolled on his chest; blood ran freely from his shattered nose and his smashed lips.
Chapter 25
From the corner of the alley, Summers watched six horsemen ride into town from around the corner where the smoke and flames consuming the newspaper building had finally subsided under the relentless efforts of the bucket brigade. Steam and smoke still swirled and billowed above Gunn Point, but the flames inside the black smoke had lessened in wildly raging intensity and now appeared to struggle to cling to the edges of the charred framework.
The horsemen rode past the bucket brigade with hardly a sidelong glance and spread out abreast across the middle of the street. At the center of the riders, a few feet in front, leading them, rode Big Jack Warren. Summers recognized him from the portrait hanging inside the bank. Only, in the portrait Warren wore a black suit, a high white collar, a broad-striped tie and a wide smile.
Here on the dirt street Warren’s tie and suit were gone. So was the smile. He wore a buckskin riding jacket, a tall Stetson and a bitter expression as his horse moved forward at a walk. The butt of a Winchester rested on his thigh. He kept his hand around the rifle, his finger inside the trigger guard.
Summers watched Roe Pindigo step out the door of the bank and lock
it behind himself. Then Pindigo walked briskly up the middle of street, looked up at Jack Warren and pointed to where he’d last seen Summers and Stiles take shelter in the alley. Warren stopped his horse and gave a jerk of his head. Summers watched two of the men ride forward while the others stopped in line with Jack Warren.
One of the men, the half-breed, Two Horse Tuell, said to Luther Passe, “This feels as bad now as it did the other day. I wish to hell this horse trader had enough sense to get scared and get out of the territory.”
“Maybe he’s wishing the same thing about us,” Passe replied, his eyes peeled on the alleyway Pindigo had pointed out to Jack Warren.
“Talk to me, Roe,” Warren said, staring straight ahead as the two men rode their horses at a slow, cautious walk toward the alley. “I heard shooting the last mile.”
“Somebody just shot Eric Holt from the rooftop,” Pindigo said.
“I can’t say that breaks me up any,” Warren said with a private little smile.
“That’s what I figured,” said Pindigo. “I mentioned it in case whoever shot him is still up there.” They both looked along the roofline.
“Where’s the men who came here with you?” Warren asked.
“They’re dead, Big Jack,” Pindigo said flatly, both of them turning their eyes from the roofline to the alley.
“Summers killed them?” Warren asked.
“He killed Fisk just a short while ago,” said Pindigo. “Avrial Rochenbach killed Rudy and Frawley and escaped when they went to question him. Summers might have helped him, I don’t know. Sweeney is missing. He went off trailing Rochenbach and never came back.”
“So we still don’t know if Rochenbach said anything to anybody?” Warren asked, shaking his head a little.
“Will it even matter after today?” Pindigo asked.
“No, I expect it won’t,” said Warren. “I’m killing Will Summers for shooting Little Jackie and messing up my whole deal. But this is as good a time as any to get rid of anybody else who’s no more use to us.”
“Including the sheriff?” Pindigo asked.
“Yeah, kill him,” said Warren casually. “If the doctor is there and tries to stop you, kill him too.”
“Suits me, Big Jack,” said Pindigo. He looked at Dr. Meadows, who had turned and walked back along the boardwalk toward his office after checking on the dead newsman. “I’m on my way,” he added. He walked hurriedly for a few yards and called out to Dr. Meadows, “Hey, Doc, wait up.”
Big Jack nodded at his other three riders and they nudged their horses forward at a walk toward the alley Two Horse Tuell and Luther Passe had turned into.
As they rode forward, Warren saw Pindigo turn away from the doctor and come trotting back along the middle of the street.
“The doctor says the sheriff is gone, Big Jack,” Pindigo said, sidling up to Warren.
Warren stopped his horse and stared down at him.
Pindigo said, “He told me Will Summers took him someplace out of town—somewhere safe is what Summers told him.”
“Like hell,” said Warren. “He’s here somewhere. So is Summers. We’ll have to search them out…door to door if we have to.”
“Big Jack, over here,” said Passe, backing his horse out of the alley, leading the half-breed’s horse beside him. Two Horse walked out of the alley with Deputy Stiles wobbling along beside him, his face covered with blood, an arm looped over the half-breed’s shoulder to keep him on his feet.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Jack Warren shouted, looking at Stiles, then all around the street. “All of you, get off your horses! Spread out and turn this town upside down! Find Will Summers and bring him to me! I’m going to quarter him like a beef right here in the street!”
The three mounted gunmen swung down from their saddles and slapped their horses’ rumps, sending the animals bolting away. They hurried off in three different directions, while the townsmen in the bucket brigade watched as they continued passing buckets of water from one pair of hands to the other.
But just as the three men split up to begin searching, Will Summers stepped out from a narrow side street closer to the burning building and put a bullet through the chest of a gunman named Olsen Tillis.
Warren and the others turned toward the sound of the shot, but only in time to see Will Summers duck back out of sight and run away along the side street.
“Get that son of a bitch!” Warren shouted, firing his Winchester wildly, sending townsmen scrambling once again for cover.
Summers ran along the side street to an alley that led him back behind the row of buildings on the main street. He ducked down behind a stack of walk planks and watched until he saw two of the gunmen run to the end of the alley. They looked both ways, then turned and hurried back to the street.
As soon as they were out of sight, Summers ran in a crouch to the nearest alleyway between buildings, and ran back toward the main street.
“We’re not going to play chase with this damned horse trader all day,” Jack Warren said. He swung down from his saddle and slapped a hand to his horse’s rump. Rifle in hand, he called out to the gunmen, “Be ready when he shows his face on the street again.”
Pindigo walked over to where Two Horse stood leaning Stiles against the front of a building.
“You better show us something, Deputy,” he said, threatening Stiles. “This is Mr. Warren’s day for trimming back on what we don’t need.”
“I’m all right,” Stiles said, shaking his bloody head. He jerked his rifle from Two Horse’s hand when the half-breed held it out to him. “If I get him in my sights, he’s dead.”
No sooner had Stiles spoken than Summers appeared at the edge of a building and fired a shot that lifted John Root off his feet and sent him slamming backward onto the ground. Root lay dead, his arm still in a sling from his last encounter with Will Summers the day Cherry had gotten shot.
As soon as Summers fired the shot, he ducked back out of sight. But this time before he had a chance to get away, a gunman named Buddy Moon fired three quick but accurate rounds from a big Colt. The bullets tore splinters from the edge of the building and caused Summers to have to duck down in place instead of making a run for it. By the time Summers had collected himself and turned back to fire from cover, a steady barrage of bullets from the street kept him from taking aim.
“Keep him pinned there!” Warren shouted. To Pindigo and Stiles he said, “Get around the block, get in the alley behind him and push him onto the street. Let’s have an end to this.”
A long sliver of wood from the edge of the building had cut across Summers’ brow. He wiped blood from his eyes and tried to get sighted on Buddy Moon, who stood half hidden behind a wagon out in front of the mercantile store. But Moon, Two Horse, Luther Passe and Jack Warren kept a steady barrage of gunfire on, keeping him pinned in place. Down the alley behind him, he saw Pindigo and Stiles; he turned and fired, sending them leaping for cover. They held their fire. But Summers knew the two wouldn’t hold their fire long.
Warren knew he had him circled. He smiled to himself and raised a hand to get Moon and Two Horse to stop shooting. Down the street, the townspeople had abandoned the burning building and were watching the gun battle from behind whatever cover they could find.
“It’s all over for you, horse trader,” Warren called out. “We’ve got you surrounded front and rear. Now it’s time you step out and face me for what you done to Little Jackie.”
“This is not about me shooting Little Jackie,” Summers said. “This is about me spoiling your attempt to rob your own bank.”
Warren winced a little. He didn’t need that kind of talk out here where the whole town could hear it.
“Call it what you will,” he said. “But step out here and let’s even up, just you and me.”
“Fair enough,” Summers said. But he knew it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Big Jack Warren wanted to put a bullet in his head. That much was true. But Summers knew that Warren would only do so af
ter his men had first shot him full of holes.
“I don’t believe you, Warren,” Summers said. “If you had wanted a fair fight, you would have come here alone and called me out.” As he spoke he looked back along the alley and saw where Pindigo and Stiles had hunkered down. It was going to get awfully bloody from here on, he told himself.
Warren gave a dark chuckle.
“Well, that’s not how I did it,” he said. “But you’re coming out, else we’ll shoot you into the ground where you stand.”
“Tell your men to stay back out of it, Warren,” Summers said, “and I will come out. If this is really about revenge for Little Jackie, you need to bring it down to just you and me.”
To Warren’s right, Moon said to Luther Passe and Two Horse under his breath, “The horse trader is right. Big Jack needs to chop him down himself.”
“Are you going to start telling Big Jack how to do things?” Passe said to Buddy Moon.
Moon fell silent, his rifle resting over a hitch rail for support.
But Warren rose from behind the cover of a stack of nail kegs and stepped onto the dirt street. He stared toward the corner of the alley where Summers stood.
“Moon, Luther, Two Horse,” he called back over his shoulder. Loud enough for Summers to hear him. “Move down the street away from here. The horse trader and I are going to have our reckoning.”
Moon and Luther looked at each other. Two Horse shook his head as if he knew better.
Warren said in a lowered tone of voice, “Be ready to kill this son of a bitch when I go for my gun.”
Two Horse looked at Moon and Luther Passe with a faint, knowing grin.
“I don’t like this,” Moon grumbled. But he moved away along the street with the other two.
Summers stepped slowly out of the alley and sidestepped along the edge of the street. If Warren really wanted a fair fight, he would accommodate him, rightly enough, he thought. But even if it was a double cross, Summers knew he had to get out of the alley between Stiles and Pindigo and the men on the street.
So far, so good…, he told himself, not really believing it. If worse came to worst, he at least had a chance to duck and run.